Where All the Dreamers Go
by heilprinn
Summary: After being hit by a car and examined for hidden injuries, Lukas is revealed to have a terrible genetic disease - and in the worst case he will only survive for a couple of months. However, it is in the ward number 2911 where Lukas first meets Mathias Kohler: the staff psychologist whose job is to bring hope to all the children imprisoned in the hospital block.
1. 1:1

_Warnings: hospital, angst, different chapter lengths, can be quite depressing._

 _Additional information: Based on my real life and worries. I don't know anyone with the disease that Lukas has, but I have known quite a few people who died in hospital wards - and quite a few people who survived. All the things that Mathias tells Lukas are true._

* * *

 _For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future._

 _Jeremiah, 29:11_

* * *

1:1

"...Huh?"

It wasn't even a whisper - more of a wheeze. Lukas could barely feel his own limbs, and the head felt dizzy and heavy. Completely empty too. There was not a single thought...

The smell. It hit him in a few seconds - resin and old chemicals, plastic bags and... marble?

Slowly, very slowly, it was coming back to him. The world seemed to gain colour again. It was all white and seafoam green now, with muted silvery highlights of bed frames.

"B-bed." Lukas voiced out, desperately trying to put his thoughts in order, his voice still nothing more than unsteady, quiet whisper. "Bett. S-smell. Drugs… Drugstore… S-seafoam gre...green."

Hopeless. Lukas never was the one to say a thing out loud, but now, all he wanted was to hear his voice as he knew it, emotionless and steady, sorting out the facts. He wasn't expecting the raspy and weird mixture of sounds, almost if someone had a hand over his throat, choking him every time he tried to force out a single word. Or his brain, maybe. Maybe it was all in his brain, and everything inside was broken, and it was the reason he couldn't breathe and felt like falling out of it again, and the reason he was floating deep in the sea of green without a submarine to get him back to surface…

"Mister Thomassen, have you woken up?"

The female voice wasn't loud or deep, but it hit Lukas like a wave, urging him to do something - so he did. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. Shuffled around a bit, carefully placing himself. Slowly creeped one of his hands up to the edge of the thin blanket covering him - and finally peeled the thin fabric down.

There she was - formerly a shadow on the fabric separating him from the world, now a young light-haired woman staring him right in the eye. She was sort of... blurry.

"So you have. Can you speak?"

In sharp, surprisingly easy movements, Lukas turned his head right. Then left. Then right again. The back of his neck hurt slightly.

"Oh. I see. Must be the anaesthetic. But don't worry, I'm sure you'll be able to freely speak again in a minute, I'll ask you some questions and you answer them when the medicine wears off, hmm? I'm Doctor Faroe, nice to meet you, Mister Thomassen… is it okay if I call you Lukas? Just nod."

Lukas nodded.

"Great! Then, um, do you remember anything that happened to you? What's the last thing you remember?"

To be completely honest, Lukas couldn't remember anything in particular. But he still tried to concentrate. Still, the last thing he recalled seemed to be completely unrelated to him lying in the hospital ward.

"...Going… to school. With my brother. Emil."

Dr. Faeroe breathed in sharply, then sighed. Her eyes, large and blue with a greenish tint - very pretty, Lukas couldn't help but notice - peered at his face with compassion and guilt. "Yes, you were going to school. But… I'm sorry, Lukas… then you were hit by a car."

Lukas gasped involuntarily. Surely… it was nothing too bad…

"Don't worry. It doesn't seem like you have any serious injuries. You have sprained some of your muscles, particularly in both of your legs, but we have already fixed that. You are actually quite lucky, to come out from an accident like that practically unscathed."

"So… I'm going home soon?"

"No. I'm sorry, Lukas… It's highly probable you're not going home anytime soon. I have some very, very bad news for you."

The boy felt all the air in his lungs jump out. He whispered, to nobody in particular,

"...What?"

"Lukas, it seems that during the crash, the stress you experienced activated a strange genetic disorder that affects your nervous system and hematopoiesis. We're not quite sure what it is, but it's almost certain you have it, and according to your blood tests and a bone marrow sample… Lukas, we've diagnosed a heavy form of aplastic anemia."

"Aplastic anemia?"

"It is a terrible disease. It affected your bloodstream, Lukas, weakening it considerably. There is this one way to cure you: bone marrow transplant. It has to come from your sibling, though, or from a well-matched donor. If we let the condition develop, it might have very serious consequences just in a couple of months."

"So you need…"

"Yes. We're currently looking for donors, and putting you on drugs that will slow down the course of your disease. Unfortunately, search for donors from your family proved fruitless. Your brother, Emil, can't be your donor, so we will scan all the databases in USA and abroad. I'm quite sure we will find someone suitable..."

All noise went out all of a sudden. Everything became so simple. Lukas felt stupid, so stupid - only in the morning he had been worrying about his unfinished social studies essay and the lack of money for lunch, and all these worries felt so damn small compared to a single fact that was not spoken out loud, but was hanging right there in the air. _A couple of months. No donor in sight. RhB-._

 _I will die in two months._

"Lukas?"

The voice, the one that sounded so nice and caring before, felt fake. This woman, Doctor Faroe, she knew how thin his chances were, knew it much better than he did. And still, she desperately tried to make him think that he would be fine. He would survive, and live better than he lived before… if they found a person with the same blood group as him, the same antigens and all that, and a donor. And Doctor Faroe knew. And still, she was making him think his chances were 75% when they were 10%. No, even less.

"Leave me alone." The words flew out on their own, monotonous and cold. "You're lying."

"Lukas?"

"If I am going to die, just say so."

"You're not going to die, and…"

"I know my blood group." It wasn't Lukas who was speaking; it was his fear and frustration. "Third minus. About one point five percent of world population. It seemed so cool when they told me how rare it was. Now I feel like I have been cursed." He remembered it all. How Mom had showed Emil and him the blood group test results. Third minus in his case. First minus in Emil's. How happy they had been then, for no reason in particular...

"Don't say that, Lukas. First minus suits you too."

"Five point four percent. Seven percent in total. And that's not counting all the antigens that must be aligned. And that's not counting all the side effects. My mother is a nurse. I know this by heart. Would you believe in your survival if you were me? I certainly don't. If I still have hope, you should search for a donor. Not tell me how great I'm going to be."

"Lukas, it's…"

"Don't call me Lukas. Leave me alone." Why did it have to hurt so much? It wasn't anything at all. He had known Doctor Faroe for a few minutes. But this way she looked at him, mixing surprise and fake calmness with courage of a wild animal tamer, made him hate her. Hate her so much.

So much he would happily hit her in the face, if only the muscles in his arms would give way.

"Well." The warm emotions in Doctor Faroe's eyes suddenly disappeared. "I rarely meet a patient like you, Mister Thomassen, but if you insist I will happily call you by your surname. And of course, if you don't wish to speak to me, I will leave you alone. You can choose to speak only to people who don't annoy you - and I assure you that you won't meet many people like that. Now please excuse me, I have other patients to attend." She sharply rose up, with waves of honey blonde hair falling over her shoulders like a mane, and swiftly walked out.


	2. 1:2

1:2

Hours were lapsing into minutes, minutes into seconds, and seconds just passed by. Lukas just stopped caring, staring at the darkened evening sky without any interest at all. He didn't have a clock anyway, so time would just pass.

Doctor Faroe was probably angry at him. So what? She was a liar anyway. Lukas had no wish to see her. And he probably wouldn't, at least anytime soon. All good news by now would be some new medicine or a notice that a suitable donor had finally beenfound - which the boy had a hard time believing in.

Speaking of medicines, a young boy, a few years older than Lukas, came once, bringing an IV with him, staying just long enough to hook the patient to it. It actually didn't feel like anything. Lukas was just vaguely surprised that he didn't notice the dripper in his arm before. The boy had dark hair and a youthful face - most probably a part-timer, if part-timers even existed at hospital wards. He would have been pretty, if it wasn't for his empty dark eyes and a large pool of moles under the left chin.

Then it was, once more, silent.

The only thing outside the small dusty-silled window was a grey wall, seemingly as tall as the sky, with yellow bushy grass at its roots. It was entirely covered with cracks, creating an intricate spiderweb. Lukas generally enjoyed such things, a welcome distraction from the colorful world he had to associate with and grew to hate, mass media screens, fake articles and fake personas; but here it was a different thing. It was terrifying, the thought of spending the rest of his life in this silent white wardroom, the only distractions being the screen of grey concrete and the monotonous tick-tock of the drop counter. It made him want to hit the wall with his head. It made him want to rip the dripper out of his forearm and scream. But all he could do was sit up, and stare out the window, and count the cracks, and hope there would be enough of them for him to pass the long months of waiting.

Lukas was at the crack number fifteen - the one running across the entire wall as if threatening to break it in half - when the door to the ward groaned unexpectedly, and gave way, with a tall blonde man walking in in long strides.

What first startled Lukas was that the man wasn't dressed in the usual uniform. There was no lab coat. Rather, he wore a wrinkled red shirt, with a small dark stain on the side, and a black necktie and baggy jeans and a CVS Pharmacy bag. His grin was so wide it didn't belong with this place, it outshone the walls, the ultraviolet hospital lamps, it outshone everything.

He could easily have passed as a clueless visitor, and Lukas would easily have believed it if it was not for one thing - he had no idea who the hell this man was.

The man closed the door carefully, and walked to Lukas's bed. How could he have not heard these ringing steps when the man was walking down the corridor, merely seconds ago? He must have really been out of it, or really in it.

Then the man dropped right on the bed's corner, with the bag falling on the floor by his legs. He looked at Lukas, his blue eyes twinkling, and gave a small wave. "Ward 2911, right? Lukas?"

Lukas nodded, warily. "...Thomassen. Who are you."

The man flashed a smile at Lukas's placid, glum expression. "Hmm? I'm Mathias Kohler. Jeremiah's Trust Hospital's staff psychologist." He mocked the official fumes of the place with just his tone. "Also a rightful guardian of all those who lashed out on their doctors. Including you."

"Doctor Faroe lied to me."

"Doctor Faroe just tends to the typical medical etiquette, it seems to me, but that's not what I wanted to talk about." Mister Kohler suddenly reached down to the floor, fishing for something in his red-and-white bag for a few short seconds, and jumped back up, sticking his find up in the air. "Here! Want a cookie?"

"What?" This conversation was getting stranger by second.

"A cookie. Everybody likes cookies, don't they? Try one. They're good."

"Can you eat cookies at the hospital?" Lukas asked quietly, his free hand reluctantly reaching over to the pack of chocolate chips offered to him.

"Yeah, sure, unless you're diabetic. Or a few other cases. But your insulin is running fine, the blood's your problem, so I guessed it was alright."

"You _guessed_?" Lukas almost bit the cookie but Mister Kohler's words made his hand jerk sideways. "What if I can't eat chocolate or allergic or something, have you looked that up?"

"Of course I did." Mister Kohler pouted, looking offended.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Lukas finally bit on the cookie. It was soft, and liquid chocolate spread all over his tongue. It felt like a homemade one.

"Mister Kohler…" Lukas started, all of a sudden. "When will my family come to visit?"

"Mathias. Not Mister Kohler. Mathias. And sorry, I don't know if they even will." Mathias smiled uneasily.

"What?" Lukas didn't even have the strength to be frustrated, or offended, or anything. He was just mildly surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Jeremiah's Trust is tightly guarded. It takes lots of red tape just to schedule a visit. They might visit you a few times, but I really have no idea when. I don't even think they know that you're staying here for a while yet." He didn't lie. He probably should have, just to keep Lukas in check, but he told the truth. That made Lukas feel grateful to the man.

"And you… do you know what my illness is?" Somehow, the aura Mathias was giving off helped Lukas talk. Say things he would never have said otherwise. "Anemia?"

"Yes, I do. I also know that you believe that you'll never get up, which is completely wrong." Mathias let out a snicker, which had no connection to his words, it seemed - his face calm, serious, collected, the sound of his laughter childish and merry. "That's part of the reason I'm here, by the way. I have to make you believe you'll come out alive."

Now that was rubbish.

"What's the point?"

"Well, it might have to do with statistics, you know, that you have more chances if you sincerely believe in your own survival, but honestly it's not that. Maybe I just really want you to." Mathias smiled at Lukas. "You look like the sort of person the world needs, after all."

"You talk too much."

"No, you talk too little. Another cookie?"

"...Perhaps." Lukas reached out his hand, only to have Mathias pull back the box with a mischievous smile.

"What sort of a kid are you, to say 'perhaps' when offered a cookie? You sound like Little Lord Fauntleroy."

"So what."

"Give me a straight answer. Another cookie?"

"...Yes." This time, Lukas's fingers finally grasped on the treat.

"Nice to feel I'm not the only one steering this conversation." Mathias watched, maybe a bit too closely, as Lukas ate the cookie in small bites. "I wanted to bring tea, too, but I broke my thermos and they don't seem to have a single water cooler around here."

"I prefer coffee."

Mathias whistled and took out a cookie for himself. "Weird kids these days. Let me guess, a lot of homework?"

"Yes." Lukas'd rather not go into details.

"Then let me tell you, tea with sugar works much better than coffee in those cases. You should totally try it once."

"Yes, th… Wait." Lukas slowly looked up from his cookie to Mathias's face again. "You're talking as if I'll have a chance."

"Of course I do, that's 'cause you will."

There probably wasn't any real merit to arguing that, Lukas decided, smiling weakly. Mathias suddenly looked at him with newfound interest.

"Oh, you can smile? Wow. I thought I was talking to… um…"

"A deadman?" Lukas suggested.

"Nah, I'd say a sleepwalker. But smile more often. So!" Mathias clapped his hands, almost making Lukas drop the remains of his cookie - which he immediately shoved into his mouth. "Let's talk!"

"About what?" Lukas asked, after finally swallowing down the chocolatey mass. "You have something else you must tell me?"

"Nah. Just plain old chat. You know. Axes. Royal penguins. Pets. Computer science. Russian Silver Age poetry. Ice cream flavors. Anything!" Some sort of mad laughter glittered in Mathias's eyes.

Just when Lukas decided that his new friend was a perfectly normal, plausible man.

"Of course, it's fine if you don't want to talk. But you'll need it once your chemotherapy starts kicking in. You'll need someone you can talk to. I'm being honest right now, Lukas. You won't stand a chance alone. You'll need someone without all this pain, all this burden, who can talk to you and understand you. And I'll be honored if you choose me."

Mathias wasn't a good speaker. He was brash, he spoke of things no doctor would ever tell a patient, and the words he chose were absolutely terrible. And Lukas hung onto those words.

"Tell me…" he started, quietly. "Do you believe I'll survive? Honestly? I have one chance in a million, and…"

"Lukas, I do believe you'll survive." Mathias's voice was clear and loud and confident, and it seeped into Lukas's bloodstream like chemicals. "One day, you'll get up, take out that dripper, step out there without any fears. I have known quite a few people who died in hospital wards, true." He smiled encouragingly. "And quite a few who survived. And you will survive too. Anything else you want to talk about? This is getting depressing."

Lukas kept silent for a few seconds, before muttering with complete resignation: "Anything. Just talk about yourself."

A large grin appeared on Mathias's face, only slightly contrasting with the deep worry pooling in his eyes, worry his voice didn't show at all.

"Me, huh? Well, I'm twenty-six. Mathias Kohler. Psychologist. University of Copenhagen graduate. But I've told you all that, right? I live around here somewhere, in a small flat, no kids or pets allowed but there _is_ a synthesizer and my flatmate plays it. I think he really wanted a grand piano instead, but an electronic one was all he could afford. He hates the sound. Says it sounds ghastly. I'm thinking of…"

Lukas slowly relaxed to a steady, cheerful pace of Mathias's flowing words, completely losing track of their meanings. He glanced out the window again, at the roots of the wall, and suddenly noticed something he paid no attention to before: a small yellow flower right in the midst of another bed of thick grass. A small daisy, right in the middle of September.


	3. 2:1

2:1

 _It smelt of molten iron, and the wheels of the IV dripper Lukas was dragging by his side were slipping by the small pools of dark, haunting red. He would rather not think about what it was - and whose it was. He was aware his bare feet were leaving footprints of the sticky, repulsive liquid on the dusty floor._

 _The corridor walls were grey, covered with intricately woven spiderwebs and light from white fluorescent lamps. They seemed to move with him, shadows mirroring twilight, enveloping and whispering on their own._

 _Lukas walked on without thoughts, clutching onto the metallic stand with both of his hands, barely noticing the red liquid running through the dripper into his veins._

 _The walls whispered_

 _The shadows whispered_

 _Doors. They ran along on the both sides - all of them see-through. Some were lit. Some were not. Some had people inside, who stared at Lukas as if he were an intruder, a nuisance, some were completely empty._

 _Some contained life. Some death._

 _But the only thing that mattered was the door in the end, the one that Lukas was pushing on to. It was made of light wood. A brass knob glowed dull umber in the dim light. Strangely familiar, it urged Lukas to open it, to step outside it, so all his problems would be solved. But as he rushed to it, it grew further and further._

 _Lukas stepped on the blood-sprawled floor, barely keeping himself from falling into the red that was rising, the small puddles now reaching his ankles; the needle in his hand growing hotter and hotter, like iron burning white; and the door was still drawing away from him, every step he made only making it grow smaller_

 _smaller_

 _SMALLER!_

* * *

Lukas woke with a start, his body trembling. Drops of sweat trickled down his temple and blood was pounding at the insides of his skull, urging his forehead to split wide open. The lamps were faintly lit, burning bloodshot eyes.

The boy's eyes were flying side to side, searching the cracked walls for familiar shadows still tracing the corners of his vision. The IV's plastic tube shook with his arms like a bedspring, a plastic growl coming from it, low and satisfied. A sudden, mortifying thought shot through Lukas's mind. He stared at his dripper with outright terror, not sure if he was imagining the new direction of the flowing liquids, the feeling of something being sucked out of his veins…

Then someone knocked on his door.

Lukas shot up in seconds, immediately regretting it as the dripper needle slipped and bit into his flesh. He hastily adjusted it, a quiet 'ow' escaping his lips when it was finally back in its place. Then he coughed into his left hand, to clear his throat, skin shivering at the warmth. Tried to make his voice more audible - to no avail. "Who's there?"

A short snicker - once again, Lukas was reminded of the walls being as thick as wrapping paper. Just as crusty too. Then, a voice spoke - the one Lukas recognized almost instantly, despite the obviously intentional deepness.

"Darth Vader."

Lukas couldn't hold back from chuckling - although his version resembled a strange coughing fit, with weakness strangling his throat. "Darth Vader who?"

"Darth Vader the Sith Lord. May the Sith Lord come in?"

"Please do."

The door opened with a creak. Lukas was expecting some sort of black headgear on Mathias's head, but there wasn't any, with bright blue eyes reflecting the street light pouring through the window - although the way the man had strolled inside would probably count as a good imitation of the Imperial March.

The red wrinkled shirt was replaced by a weird, exceptionally ugly sweater, silvery grey with a detailed embroidery of two green reindeers touching their red noses together. The hair only seemed to grow worse, with the earlier slight mess turning into a rag of golden fur glowing orange, white highlights appearing whenever the white lamplight grazed it. And in his hands the man was holding a large green thermos covered with stickers ranging from 'Organic' fruit labels to Disney princesses and Hello Kitty. But it didn't feel ridiculous at all - comforting rather, if anything.

Mathias flung himself down at Lukas's bedside, making the boy jerk away, afraid of the needle slipping out once more. However, the man seemed to have a rather graceful way of flinging himself - at least, nothing seemed harmed.

The two stared at each other for a few seconds, before Lukas burst into another fit of coughing, cheery laughter. Mathias's grin quickly turned into a playful scowl.

"What, do I look that stupid? I know it's nowhere near Christmas for my double Rudolph sweater, and I know the stitches are terrible, but that's the first time I've received such a reaction..."

"So you've seen the Star Wars series!" Lukas exclaimed, before coughing a bit, his blanket crumpling at his thighs as he pulled his knees up.

"Sure I have." The mock arrogance in the straw-haired man's intentionally deep voice was unmatched. "Did my awesome, shhh-hohhh, Force presence give out the secret, shhh-hohhh, to you…" Mathias peered, his eyes twinkling in a mix of honour and jest, "... mere Jedi scum?"

"Awesome Force presence?" Lukas rolled his eyes. "And also, I'm not a Jedi. In fact, I'm more of a Darth Vader than you are."

"Are totally not." Mathias smiled fondly. "You're more like Luke Skywalker the eye candy. Jeg er din fader!"

"An injured sickly Luke Skywalker? That's Anakin."

Mathias pretended to scrutinize Lukas's body, briefly wandering along his figure and fingers still clutching the blanket, one hand still lying on the bed in an awkward position. "Nah. More like Luke Skywalker who has a small case of influenza, as of his current state."

"Influenza that comes with many medications." Lukas gestured at the IV stand.

"Luke had it worse. I mean, he had an arm torn off."

"Not an arm, per se. A hand."

"Yeah, but that must have hurt a ton. And even then he had a prosthetic hand attached. To his very nerves. Just imagine how terrible it must have been."

"Darth Vader was still in more pain when he died."

"Maybe, but he died, unlike Luke, and I guess dying is painful for most people. Anyways!" Mathias clapped his hands, as he usually did. "I brought tea."

"...Okay."

"That's your response? I went all the way home to brew it for you, ask for a cup at least." Mathias pouted as his hands worked at unscrewing the thermos.

"Fine. I'm asking for a cup."

Mathias laughed softly as he poured tea into the plastic lid. "Stiff." He passed the cup to Lukas's trembling fingers, slightly brushing against the boy's nails.

Lukas looked at the shaking liquid absentmindedly, his lips parting in a gasp. "What if I spill it? Or…"

Mathias smiled - not that wide grin, but, once more, the affectionate quirk of lips. "Have more courage, will you."

That much was enough to make Lukas put the cup to his lips and drink a small sip.

"It's certainly… sweet."

"Sugary, right? It keeps you up all night."

Lukas looked at Mathias contemplatively. "How are you not fat?"

"Ow!" Mathias seemed offended. "Thanks, really, for telling me I'm not, but that was really harsh coming from you."

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. Should have seen that one coming." Mathias's smile wavered as he studied Lukas's expression. "I guess it's mostly work. I don't have a lot of patients at the moment, but I remember times when I was the only good psychologist around, and I used to have about twenty all the time."

"Twenty? How many do you have now?"

Mathias shrugged. "Five max. Constantly changing. Right now I only have you and a small girl in another ward who's getting out soon. She doesn't really need my presence to be confident. I mean, they brought her crayons." He laughed. "It strikes me, this place: top-notch facilities, best doctors, but they can't bring a box of crayons to an eight-year-old!"

"There's a crack on the wall."

"Huh?"

"You said top-notch facilities, but there are cracks." Lukas pointed his finger at the small crack, prominent even in the soft light.

"Have you even been listening since I have mentioned them… Don't be scared. This is one of the oldest buildings in NYC. Naturally it's not picture perfect. Still, I don't think it's crashing anytime soon."

"Oldest buildings?"

Mathias's brow arched briefly. "Jeremiah's Trust was already around at the time of Mafia fights in the 1920s. So about a hundred years old, I'd imagine. This is the oldest building, despite the odd numbers. There are other buildings now, scattered across the US of A, lots of them really, but this is the first one. I'd say that's also where the tight security part comes from - trust mafiosi to think about their safety. Years since the last Mafia clan went down and the policy still stands." Mathias imitated puffing out a cloud of smoke, drawing an imaginary cigarette away from his mouth. Lukas snickered.

"Dear Don Corleone, where are we going to spend this night?"

"Jeremiah's Trust, naturally. They offer better security than my home does." Mathias ruffled his hair. "Seriously though, it's a real pain. You run a check every time you're in and out. Retina check, documents check, fingerprints. The only quick way to get in is to be a patient."

Lukas took another sip. "Mister Mathias Kohler, the staff psychologist of Jeremiah's Trust National Hospital, New York City, New York. Denmark University graduate."

"University of Copenhagen, but otherwise, nice." Mathias grinned. "You seem to be good at imitations. Your school's Theatre Club is missing out."

"We don't have one."

"Pity. Then your school's missing out, what's with no Theatre Club. It ain't a school if there's nobody throwing impromptu acts in the middle of the school hall."

"Did you have those? When you were at school?"

"Sure we did, but I used to invent them and let others actually do them. It was nice, working behind the scenes, nobody on your back for an extra autograph."

"They were that good."

"I guess. I don't exactly remember. Anyways, you want more tea?" Mathias asked all of a sudden, just in time for Lukas to drain his cup with a final gulp of now lukewarm tea.

"Yes, please."

Mathias smiled as he poured the tea into the lid. "You can now answer questions. Great."

* * *

"I don't think he's coming!" Gilbert hollered from the kitchen, clicking down the lights. "It's, like, 2 AM."

"He should be, he told me he would come." Roderich answered evenly, knowing he'd still be heard through the cardboard walls. "He spent the last night at the hospital, too. He usually gets a nap and a shower after pulling an all-nighter." He turned over another page of his _Beethoven's Letters_. "And please don't holler like that, it's very annoying."

The washing machine grumbled in the hall.

"Then he'll have to get 'em alone, 'cause I'm too sleepy to wait. I'm only staying up as long as the washer is working. I don't want to be woken up by a shriek from down the hall, you know." Steps echoed, and Gilbert stuck his face into the open door, startling Roderich from the book. "Anyways, can't see why you're still awake."

Roderich hid his face behind the large tome as Gilbert shut the door and crossed the room to look at the cover. "The book is interesting."

"Oh, come on. It's a compilation of old letters. They're never interesting." Gilbert dropped down on the bed besides Roderich. "Unless he wrote of conspiracy theories. Any suspicions of Illuminati existence there?" He peered into the book.

"No." Roderich answered, turning over another page. "And I'm going to bed soon."

"Is soon 3 AM? Late working hours are no excuse for you to undersleep."

"You don't have late working hours. You undersleep."

"So? Those who pay don't care as long as I have a blueprint when they need it."

"And I don't care if you don't have a blueprint. I care if you have dark circles under your eyes, and you have them."

Gilbert snickered, his hand settling on Roderich's shoulder. "Oooh, I've turned you into a feisty little thing."

"...You did not."

"I did. You just don't want to accept the fact that my awesomeness is infectious." Gilbert leaned in to Roderich, his arm further encircling the slender figure.

Roderich promptly rose his eyes from the text, briefly glancing over Gilbert as he scanned the room. "Awesome? I don't see anybody awesome."

"Get yourself a check with an optician, I see your glasses aren't making it anymore." Gilbert smiled. "Different topic. I think the washing machine is stopping in…" Gilbert halted for a second, his lips moving in thought. "Nineteen. Eighteen."

"How come we're still not setting our watches by you?"

"Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven." Gilbert began counting out loud with a quirk of his lips, counting on the fingers of his free hand. "I have no idea actually. Nine."

Roderich looked back to his book. "Eight. Seven."

"Slipping. Four. Three. Two. One." With the last word, Gilbert rose his hand up and grinned - just in time for the beeps to kick in from the hall.

"I still don't know how you do this." Roderich murmured.

"Human magic. I mean, years of practice." GIlbert rose up, fingertips catching a stray curl of Roderich's hair, the younger man shuddering at the touch. "Now I'm going to turn the doomsday machine off before my ears wilt. And afterwards..." His fingers lingered at the tip of the wild strand. "Afterwards I'm going to bed and turning off the lights. You'd better make yourself ready - unless you're planning to sleep in your suit."

"As if you… as if you wouldn't want that." Roderich felt blood rise to his cheeks.

"Of course." Gilbert smiled again as he turned the doorknob. His next words were a blur in the machine roar, but Roderich was quite sure in what he heard: "It's always a lot of fun taking 'em off anyway."

* * *

 _Notes:_

 _\- Well, my updates are not exactly steady, are they? Once I complete my Surstrommiaki Fest entry (maybe I'll even post it here, but I have like three days to finish up so idk) I'll continue working on this fic and its companion fic. I'm not giving up, haha… even if school and my own lazy tendencies are keen to prove me otherwise. I already have drafts for chapter 4, but, well, SuFin time._

 _\- Mafia is still around in NYC, my source says, but I guess it's mostly invisible - and Mathias is a foreigner, trust him to think like that._

 _\- Luke, I am a turtle_


End file.
